


Twelve Primaries

by bluewhitewings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Grace, Bottom Castiel, Drunk Dean, Flashbacks, M/M, Wing Kink, Wingfic, feathers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:18:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluewhitewings/pseuds/bluewhitewings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smutty little wingfic I wrote because a friend found black feathers all over her house, and we surmised that it was because Castiel had visited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Primaries

He still smelled of ash when he found the first feather, glistening on the white pillow of the queen size hotel bed. His arms were tired from carrying his brother, and he was tired from running and crying, and tired of Sammy screaming, but he left his baby brother’s side just long enough to reach up and wrap small fingers around it. At the age of four, feathers were genuine treasure, on the same level as buried pirate booty. He returned to the side of the small basket, rocking his screaming brother with his foot as he studied his find.

Glossy and black, it had a sheen of blue that caught the light as he turned it in his hands. It was big, maybe from some kind eagle or a big raven, and perfectly formed. Unruffled, except from his touch, and he unconsciously smoothed the split in the barbs, sealing them together once again. On a whim, he touched his brother’s tear stained cheek with the tip of the feather. Someone else would have called the eventual calm it brought the baby a coincidence but Dean knew otherwise. Angels were watching over them. He left the feather resting on Sammy’s blankets as he slept.

The feather didn’t make it into the car, his father wouldn’t let him take it. So he took it to the stream at the side of the property and threw it in, watching it drift and spin through eddies until it disappeared around a bend.

~~~

Ten years old, on the second day of school in a new town, he nearly trod on it where it lay on the sidewalk. The same kind of feather, but shorter and curved, fluttering a bit in the morning breeze. This one had a hint of gray to it and a faint barred pattern of midnight blue and black. He bent to pick it up, running the sleek thing through his fingers and squinting up into the tree that shaded the sidewalk, hoping to catch sight of the bird that had shed it. All he saw were sparrows. On a whim, he ran the feather along the tender rise of his cheekbone as he walked on. His bruises ached a little less, he thought, and he swore secretly that the scabs on his palms were a little more healed over by the end of the day.

He carried it with him and took it home, rather to the hotel room that served as home. Sammy managed to get it away from him when he wasn’t looking and flushed it down the toilet.

~~~

He was fourteen and the feather was nearly touching his nose when he woke up. His lazy exhalations ruffled the downy fluff, causing the thing to skim off the pillow to rest in sharp contrast to the pink and white sheet. He sat up and picked it up between two fingers. It was the same blue gray black, just a little thing, soft and spotted with white at the tip. Perhaps when he got back he’d get Sammy to tell him what kind of bird it was from. He leaned out of bed and tucked it in the pocket of his jacket, reclining back into the warm, tousled sheets.

In the morning, an unfamiliar voice calling her to breakfast jarred him awake. He dressed hurriedly and promised to visit again, already in love and stealing another kiss. Heavy footsteps on the stairs sent him fleeing out the window without his jacket. They left the state the next day.

~~~

Elbows deep in an engine, Dean tried to tune out Bobby’s shouting. Sam was gone, left for Stanford and good riddance, and Bobby was furious at John for the way they’d left it. He wiped his brow, fighting against the unwanted emotions that threatened at the loss of his brother, and straightened his back to work out the stiffness.

Resting on the top of the car was a pinion, the flight feather of a massive bird. It was long, as long as his arm or longer, and barred with the familiar blue-black and edged with a thin, pearlescent white. He reached for it, then stopped and wiped his hands on the rag to rid them of grease before he caught the shaft between his fingers and lifted it off the dusty car. For something so large, it was still so light, and he swished it through the air, watching it lift as he did so. Bobby might know what kind of bird it belonged to, and he resolved to ask him when the fallout had settled. He stashed the feather inside the Ford and leaned back under the hood.

John packed him up and they left in the night, without the feather.

~~~

“Show me, Cas. I wanna see ‘em.” Dean was drunk, and Sammy was asleep, and they were going to die the next day, all of them. Castiel had in fact been drinking as well, and perhaps that was why the angel hadn’t left. They were alone in the front room of Bobby’s home, Dean sprawled along the couch with a beer in hand, and Castiel sitting comfortably in an overstuffed armchair. The angel rolled his head along his shoulder just enough to regard Dean.

“Show you what, Dean.” It was unclear as to whether Cas was being deliberately obtuse. Dean made a flapping motion with his free arm, unable to find the words.

“Yer.. whaddya call ‘ems. Wings. You’ve got ‘em, you showed me once. Like a goddamned peacock. Struttin’ around show in’ off your plumage to all the ladies.” He stopped for a moment and for another swig of beer, and continued before the peacock analogy got out of hand. “Anyway, I wanna see ‘em. And we’re gonna die tomorrow, so you gotta honor the last request of a dead man.” He tried for puppy eyes.

“They’re not wings in a literal sense, Dean. They don’t have feathers or bones, and… manifesting them on this mundane plane takes effort and can call unwanted attention.” He shifted in his seat to focus intently on Dean, trying to impress upon him that the wings really weren’t that interesting. “They serve navigational purposes. They are like oars, or rudders on a ship.” He paused and squinted, then said with great gravity, “Sails.”

“Gonna die tomorrow,” Dean reminded him without breaking eye contact. Castiel shifted and leaned forward, a steely edge to his glare. Dean might have known he was pushing his luck with the angel, but their relationship was complicated and sometimes pushing his luck was the only way to get anywhere.

“You are asking me to manifest a part of myself that no human has ever seen. To take metaphysical objects and make them solid, for you, while potentially calling the Adversary and his followers to our location well before we planned to attack.”

Dean set his beer on the table and sat up, elbows resting on his knees. “I’m hearin’ a lot of excuses, Cas.” Now he knew he was pushing his luck and didn’t care. “Either do it or don’t, but stop dancin’ around the issue.” He didn’t know where Cas had learned to roll his eyes, or when he got so effective at it, or if he was actually feeling exasperation or just emulating what he thought was a correct human response to Dean saying words to him.

“Shield your eyes. Grace-related wounds are.. more difficult to cure with grace.” The angel stood, sweeping his hands down the front of his overcoat to settle it on his body. Dean obliged and slung an arm over his face, leaning back on the couch with his legs stretched in front of him. The sound that came next was not unlike the distinctive flutter of Castiel’s zapping, making Dean worry for a moment that the angel had left. But this time, it continued. There was a gentle rushing of wind through autumn leaves, and the scrape of something light against tan fabric.

“Still with me, Cas?” Dean mumbled through his arm. He heard a footstep and then another.

“Yes. I doubt I could fit through the door with these.” Dean huffed a laugh at the slightly disgruntled tone. Another shivering sound of wind through leaves and the hollow sweep of fingers down feathers and Dean felt his stomach twisting in anticipation.

“Since when do you use doorways?” he quipped, almost dropping his arm but catching himself. “Can I look yet?”

Castiel still sounded disgruntled. “I don’t understand why you feel the need to look at them. They are no more a part of my true form than this vessel is.” Dean waited without patience. “Yes, you can look.” Dean dropped his arm, looking up at Castiel, who had moved closer to the couch. At first he saw no real difference, but the area behind the angel was darker somehow. Shadows lay folded behind him as the blue-eyed creature stood and waited.

“So all this about them not bein’ a real part of you.. you didn’t need to go possess a bird or something to get ‘em, though.” The statement was made a question as Dean stood and started to circle Castiel. The angel turned with him, blocking him from the wings with another rushing sound of wind.

“The wings of birds were designed in our image. Don’t touch.” he said, the rough edge to his voice both commanding and pleading. “If you want me to move, tell me.” Dean hesitated, then nodded slowly at the earnest expression on his angel’s face. Castiel nodded in return and turned to face the couch again, exposing his side to him. From his back extended a third set of limbs, wrapped in glossy feathers that Dean could not help but recognize. Moving further behind the angel, he reached out without thinking and gripped the edge of a wing, pulling it gently to extend it. “Dean!” Castiel hissed at him, glaring over his shoulder and pulling the wing back to snap it against his back, the feathers splaying along the overcoat and papers fluttering off the table.

He squinted at Castiel. “Spread ‘em, angel.” The innuendo was lost on the celestial being, as usual, but he lifted his wings anyway, spreading the dark pinions to the edges of the room where they brushed against the cobwebby ceiling. Dean really had intended to not touch, but it was too much all at once and he needed all of his senses on board. Ducking under one spread wing, he faced Castiel, a quick glance confirming what he already knew. The familiar barred pattern, the spotted down where the feathers grew softer towards Castiel’s shoulders, a sheen of blue that shimmered when he looked at it. “Were you watching over me? Leaving me freakin’… angel souvenirs?”

Castiel studied him, and his wings drooped and folded against his back once more. “Dean… You needed assurance.”

“Dude, that’s weird. You’re like.. a time traveling stalker or somethin’.” Dean was trying to stay mad, but the presence of the wings (which he noted seemed to make the angel more expressive, in a way) was too distracting, and he reached over Castiel’s shoulder to run his fingers over the top edge of the wing. The feathers rustled against themselves as the limb quivered and Dean watched the angel set his jaw, avoid eye contact and do that thing where he bit the inside of his lip. Dean found that he liked that thing. Feathers fluffed up around his fingers as he ran his hand along the inside, barely touching except for the barest brush against the feather tips. Castiel seemed faintly flustered. Drunk and curious, Dean buried his fingers into the soft down at the base of his wing, to the roots. His arm was curled around the angel’s body, standing closer than he would have normally preferred, and he would not have noticed this in his pleasantly drunken haze, except for the noise Castiel made, which his brain chose to describe as ‘porny’.

Things happened very fast after that. He jumped back in shock, leaving the angel swaying forward into a chest that was no longer present. Castiel chose to counterbalance himself with his expansive wings, and flapped forward, sending papers flying across the room in a miniature typhoon of research. One pinion caught a lamp and sent it across the room where it shattered against the wall. Castiel’s hands were on him, and his back met the wall faster than he would have thought possible, black wings mantling around him like an eagle over captured prey and before he could react to that, lips pressed against his roughly. Dean’s boot heels ground against the lamp shards as he squirmed against the iron grip of the angel’s hands in his hair, his own hands coming up to grip Castiel’s collar, then the nape of his neck as he nipped roughly against the lips keeping him captive.

Heat exploded between them as the fight faded into passion, Dean’s hands slipping to the base of the wings and raking his fingers through the downy feathers there. He wanted, no, needed to hear that sound again, needed to taste the inside of that sound, to stop it with his lips and pull it into himself. Castiel yelped raggedly into his mouth as he pulled a handful of feathers, pulled back and gripped his collar, shoving him harder against the wall with a dangerous expression. “I told you not to touch.”

Dean returned the glare, his hands still buried in his feathers. He shifted his hips, a breath ripping out of him and echoed by the creature whose body was pressed so intimately into his. The surreal situation was not lost on him, being pinned up against a wall and eye-fucked by an angel had happened before but never with the wings, never with the kissing, and never quite so blatantly for sexual gratification. “How long you been holdin’ that Brokeback itch in, Cas? Never took you for a.. gay angel. A gayngel.” He smirked at his own cleverness and pulled on a few of the feathers, letting the pornographic sound Castiel made wash over him and pool hot in his groin. Castiel pulled him away from the wall and slammed him back, shocking a grunt out of him.

Footsteps on the landing made them halt, Castiel’s eyes growing wide and panicked. Dean tightened his grip on the feathers and leaned forward to grit out an order against the other man’s lips, not bothering to close his eyes against the intimacy. Green bored into wide blue. “Don’t you dare leave, you son of a bitch. You leave, you’re taking me with you.”

Wings mantled around him as Castiel pulled back, blue glare unblinking, one hand knotted in Dean’s collar and suddenly they were gone. Dean had enough time to see hazy afternoon light beaming through the windows of another nondescript hotel room before Castiel was on him again, his body solid against the hunter and his mouth on his jaw.

Dean’s hands again plunged into the silky feathers over his shoulders. Teeth scraped against his stubble as Castiel growled in pleased agony, the heavy line of his cock throbbing and hot against his. The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed and Castiel landed atop him with the trenchcoat fluttering mojo-assisted away from his body, followed by the suit coat and shirt. Dean raked furrows in his bare back with his fingernails, pulling on the feathers he could reach as the midnight wings beat above him and Castiel propped himself up to grind against him. “Dean.” Dean reached up and gripped the muscled limb, dragging the angel against him and struggling out of his shirt.

Skin against skin was a greater blessing than he had hoped for, the warm flush of Castiel’s chest against his, the angel a solid weight above him, his hips grinding down and seeking friction against the writhing hunter. Dean brought his lips crashing against Castiel’s, frantic now that the sensation was overpowering him, he worked his free hand between them and dragged Castiel’s slacks open, reaching beneath the plain boxers the angel wore and gripping his cock, letting the throbbing heat soak into his palm.

“Cas.. I need you.” he growled, squeezing him and letting his fingers play over the length. Castiel groaned, dropping his head to Dean’s shoulder, his teeth catching the skin of Dean’s neck and biting down. He yelped and bucked his hips against the angel, panting as he struggled out of his own jeans, desperate for more contact. He pressed a foot to the bed and shoved upward to grind his bare cock against the angel’s.

“Dean, don’t stop. Please.” Castiel’s voice was ragged, his eyes when he looked at Dean wide and intently focused. He inhaled as Dean lifted his hips again, wrapping his fingers around both cocks, thrusting up against him, his lips parted and his eyes fixed on the hunter’s face.

Dean murmured up at him, voice pitched low and private. “What do you want, Cas? Tell me.” The husky tone seemed to work as intended and he felt the angel’s cock give an answering throb. Castiel trembled above him and leaned down to rest his forehead against his, the wings coming down to fold over his back, feathers ruffling with pleasure.

“I want to experience intercourse with you, Dean.” Dean snorted and reached up, stroking his fingers through tousled dark hair and lifting his chin to kiss him, stubble rough against his upper lip and chin and the sensation of it not nearly as unwelcome as he might have thought.

“Not sexy, Cas. How about you want me to fuck you over a desk until you scream out my name.” Castiel shivered, watching Dean’s lips as he spoke. “What about if I bend you over and use these as handlebars.” He tugged Castiel’s wings, thrusting up against him, and the feathered limbs arched back, stretching up to scrape against the ceiling with a harsh sound. The angel writhed atop him, his wings beating the air before arching out for balance, his fingers curling against Dean’s chest.

“Dean!” The hunter chuckled and leaned up to bite his neck.

“That sounds like a yes to me. Lemme up.” Dean pulled on feathers again and Cas squirmed in the midst of rolling off of him. Dean rolled off the foot of the bed, standing and tugging his jeans off. He leaned over the angel, hooking his thumbs in his slacks and dragging them down to his ankles. “C’mere, Cas.” Dropping the handful of charcoal suiting to the ground, Dean leaned up and gave the angel’s well-formed ass a playful smack, to which Castiel responded by buffeting him with a wing, nearly knocking him to the ground. Dean laughed, the delighted sound surprising him even he heard it and he dove on top of the angel, slotting himself against his back.

It was an odd fit, his body weight pressed the wings apart so they splayed over the sides of the bed, trembling with a zephyric sound, but he could wrap his arms around the other man’s chest and press kisses to the nape of his neck, and with a little bit of a shift, he could press his knees between Castiel’s, spreading them with his own. The new angle of his hips was interesting and worth exploring in greater detail, his hips rocking slowly, grinding his erection against the cleft of Castiel’s ass. The angel lay still, his head turned against the pillows and his hands curled loosely under his shoulders. Dean had a moment of gratitude for the warm sunlight that beamed through the slats in the window, illuminating Castiel’s face so he could watch the slow fluttering of his lashes against his cheekbones whenever Dean’s hips moved. “Hey, Cas.”

The angel beneath him opened his eyes, and Dean felt more than saw a shift in the wings beneath his chest. While he wasn’t experienced with reading emotions conveyed with metaphysical navigational sails manifested on the physical plane, he figured it was probably a question. “Yes?”

“You really want this? I guess, what I’m askin’ is, do you get what we’re gonna do. I mean, it can hurt sometimes.” Dean’s gaze shifted away, then back to find the angel wearing one of his best and most practiced expressions; Dean usually thought of it as Castiel’s ‘bitch, please.’ expression. When he spoke, there was the faintest edge of smugness in his voice.

“Dean, you can’t hurt me.” Dean snorted and Castiel narrowed his eyes again. Feathers brushed against the floor and the hunter shifted, getting his knees under him and running his fingers over Castiel’s back as he sat up. He gripped a hip, letting his fingers trace just inside his hipbone and the angel shivered. Dean tugged, and Castiel followed his touch, lifting himself and leaning his back against Dean’s chest. Midnight wings swept back to frame Dean, the rising arch of alulas towering over his head as he felt the tips of primaries brushing his legs. They were warm and soft, and remarkably alive.

His hand skated down planes of soft skin and solid muscle, his fingers coming to rest loosely circling the base of Castiel’s shaft. The slack, relaxed position of the angel against his chest suddenly stiffened as he turned his head to face Dean’s neck and gasped against his skin. His lube was in the bottom of a bag, wrapped in a sock, and all the way at Bobby’s; Dean reached up, his fingers poised on his own lips to wet them before a wicked thought struck him. He brushed two fingers against Castiel’s lips and bent his head to his ear. “Suck.”

Castiel’s head pushed back against his shoulder in some surprise at the touch to his lips, seeking Dean’s eyes to question him. “Why.” Dean gave his cock a slow, lazy stroke, watching the angel’s lashes flutter closed as a low moan left his lips and Dean pushed his fingers into his mouth.

Castiel’s eyes flew open and immediately he bit them. It wasn’t a hard bite, more done out of surprise and warning than anything else, and Dean gave a rough growl in response. There was something between them now that felt a little like standing too close to a lightning storm, one of the silent ones they had in monsoon season in the southwest. Tension building as they waged a silent war, each daring the other to take the next step, to push past the boundaries that they had carefully built up. If not for the pulsing erection in his fist, Dean would have thought it was a battle he couldn’t win, but he had the angel at his mercy this time.

He pulled his fingers away and covered his mouth with his, pouring everything he had into the kiss, all of the things he couldn’t say, couldn’t give voice to, couldn’t even think, stroking against Castiel’s stubbled throat as he cupped the side of his neck, feeling the angel’s pulse racing beneath his fingers. Castiel gave a ragged whimper and Dean pulled away, brushing his thumb against his lower lip and pushing his fingers into the now-pliant softness of Castiel’s mouth, feeling his tongue flick against the digits. “That’s what I thought.” Castiel’s moan was more a grudging growl, and his brows drew down to glare at Dean even as his tongue stroked over his fingers and pulled them deeper into his mouth.

Dean could watch Castiel suck on any part of him for hours, his head tipped back, lips slick and ever-so-slightly reddened, pupils blown wide, one hand gripping his wrist and tugging it to seek more contact with his cock. But his own body was nagging for release, and he pulled his fingers from Castiel’s mouth and pressed close, the dry feathers soft against his chest as he sought another kiss and stroked down to his lower back and against his ass.

Castiel jumped as his fingers made contact, a slick touch against sensitive skin, and his grip tightened like iron against Dean’s wrist. His response to the kiss was frozen as Dean’s finger breached him, short breaths into Dean’s mouth as his body arched slightly. The angel was tight and hot, and Dean’s body informed him that there was nothing at all objectionable to gay sex with Castiel, despite a few brief thoughts to the contrary, all of which were quickly banished. Dean paused, one finger buried inside him, until the angel took a deeper breath and reached up blindly to grip Dean’s close-cropped hair, arching his head back over his shoulder and seeking his gaze with a fierce glare.

“Dean, you have thirty seconds to get on with it or I swear to you, I will… zap you back in the center of Bobby’s study exactly as you are.” he grated out through clenched teeth. Dean laughed despite the spike of panic he felt and twisted his finger within him before pressing a second inside. Castiel let out a strangled gasp, arching again, his wings snapping open. Behind them on the desk, a lamp crashed against the wall as it was struck by the powerful primaries and knocked aside.

“Jesus, Cas. You gotta keep those things under control.” Dean teased, spreading his fingers inside him and giving his erection a gentle squeeze and stroking slowly up his length. It did little to restrain the writhing angel. He pressed them deeper and twisted and Castiel tensed, and a slick bead of precome rolled down his shaft to meet Dean’s fingers.

“Thirteen seconds,” Cas panted, his eyes mostly closed as he regarded Dean. “Your time is running out.” Dean pulled his fingers from him and spat hurriedly into his palm, reaching down to slick his aching cock with several quick strokes. He leaned in, his body bending the angel forward, his thighs pressed against Castiel’s. “Seven seconds.” the angel breathed, bracing himself against the bed with his arms. Dean took a breath, shifting forward to press himself against the ring of muscle and bent over him, his arm curled around his chest and his hand gripping the front of his thigh as he pressed inside.

“Cas. Oh God, Cas.” The feel of Castiel’s body hot around him, the sudden incredible rush of lust and whirlwind around him as the angel’s wings snapped outward, feathers spreading and lifting at the sensation of Dean filling him. Every midnight black feather fluffed out as the wings snapped back and around Dean. Dean dropped his head to Castiel’s shoulder, halting at the apex of his thrust to breathe. The friction was almost too great, the feeling almost too intense.

“Dean, do not make me count more,” Castiel pleaded, reaching back and tugging at Dean’s shoulder. “Keep going.” The desperate, ragged tone of the angel’s voice tore through Dean’s worry for him, and he nuzzled against the back of his shoulder. Bracing one hand on Castiel’s hip, he pulled back and thrust again, drawing a huff of pleasure from the angel and the flutter of feather against feather.

Dean couldn’t stop, he couldn’t bring himself to wait or to worry, and the blissed out noises from the angel beneath him did nothing to change that. He slid his hands up to the base of the wings, skin warm beneath feathers as he gripped the muscular limbs tightly and straightened to drive into him with deep thrusts, the wings flicking up and fluffing out more and more every time he bottomed out, the room filled with a perpetual windstorm from the effect he was having on the angel. “Cas.. Touch yourself.”

Castiel looked over his shoulder to Dean, his face slack with pleasure as he shifted to catch hold of his cock. He kept watching him, expression nearly worshipful as Dean drove into him, running his fingers through the feathers, stroking his palm over the sweat-slick back beneath him. Dean’s own pleasure would not be denied, peaking rapidly while the angel dropped his upper body to the bed, curling his back, cries of pleasure dragged out of him with every powerful thrust the hunter made, rocking the angel beneath him into his own hand.

“Dean… Dean!” was all Castiel could get out before Dean wrapped his fingers around both tense wings, his fingers buried in the down, pinching between the feathers and covering the angel’s back with his chest. Cas smelled of ozone and the salt of sweat and Dean buried his nose against his hairline, turning his head to bite the back of his neck as the angel’s body tensed beneath him.

Dean caught a brief glimmer of radiance increasing around him and he thought it was a trick, the intense pleasure of the sex making him somehow white out, but the blazing glow seemed brightest around Castiel’s wings. Realizing both the source and the danger, he squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face away and pushing his cheek against Castiel’s shoulder. It was still enough to make his retinas burn, but the feeling of Castiel’s grace washing over him made his skin prickle and for a moment he was a thousand times more sensitive, his skin tingling and the feel of skin against skin and his cock buried in tight heat making his mind short out.

Some part of him wanted to make it last, to impress the celestial being with his stamina, but that part of him was a minority. Being surrounded by the grace of an orgasmic angel was like being on E. All he wanted to do was rub against the feathers and the pale skin and taste Castiel’s radiance on his tongue and in every breath and with that he was coming, howling his pleasure into the fold of a midnight wing. His release spilled into Castiel and it was more intense than he’d ever felt, leaving him a drenched, boneless mess as he gulped breaths of air, his eyes still shut against the lingering radiance in the room.

He tried to speak but it took him a few tries to get his mouth working. “Cas,” he panted. At some point, they had collapsed to the surface of the bed, still tangled together. Dean felt a shiver roll through him along with an intense aftershock, and for a moment he felt like he could go again, particularly when Castiel responded to his question with a series of barely-recognizable-as-English syllables, muffled by his face in the tumultuous blankets below him. “What?”

Castiel shifted, wings flexing beneath Dean’s chest. “I’m sorry. Did you survive?” Dean couldn’t help a silent, bewildered laugh that broke as he shifted, pulling out of the angel, kissing the back of his neck.

“Yeah. You?” Castiel’s hair brushed his nose in a nod. “Are you done playing the Human Torch now? Is it safe for me to look at you?” Castiel reached back with fumbling fingers and touched Dean’s hair, petting him. It was exactly the sort of awkward thing Dean had expected from him, in some angels-gone-wild fantasies he would never admit to anyone else.

“It is safe. I’m sorry I lost control.” Dean opened his eyes cautiously, turning his head with no effort to lift it, dragging his unshaven cheek against Castiel’s shoulder, pale in contrast with the dark feathers, and catching the angel’s expression. He looked impressed.

“What?” Dean found himself smiling and was surprised to see Castiel returning his smile.

“You had the foresight to protect yourself from my grace even when I didn’t have the ability to contain it. There are times when you still have the ability to impress me, Dean.” The hunter snorted and pushed himself up, sliding under one splayed, outstretched wing to lay beside him, closer than he would have dared with anyone else.

There was a flutter as Castiel tucked his opposite wing in, folding it to his back, but left the other draped over Dean, before he pressed tighter to his side, burying his face in his neck. In the comfortable silence, Dean could feel a familiar darkness slink back into his awareness and he lifted a hand to touch Castiel’s shoulder casually. The touch reassured him, but it wasn’t enough. He took a breath, to ask the angel how long they had.

Before he could speak, Castiel murmured against his shoulder. “As long as we need.” Dean relaxed beneath the wing, running his fingers over it. As he did, a single feather, likely loosened by the rough treatment, came free against his fingers, and he studied the sheen of it before dropping it to the blankets, curling himself against Castiel’s side and pulling him into lazy afternoon kisses.


End file.
